Saint Walsh
by Sherann
Summary: What has it been? Like 18 years since the original Beverly Hills 90210 completed? Yeah just about. And yet, here I am, still writing about the show. I must be a loser. This is a collaboration of short stories I wrote about 90210 taking place in the year 2020, so if you have any desire to figure out what happened to the gang this is your story.
1. JC Mulvaney

Year: 2020

JC Mulvaney

His piercing blue eyes burned a hole in the side of my face, his skin pale like the moon, his grin deceitful like a cheshire cat, and his lips bubble gum pink-and thin. Because of these extremely white all-American boy qualities, he hung on the wall of our school as a monument of greatness. His photo frame was made of gold, his certificates placed all around, and his trophy treasures filled a whole glass case-his name you ask? Saint Brandon Timothy Walsh. Never ask the question who he was? because if you did it was an absolute give-away that you weren't from Beverly Hills.

Walking past his shrines of glory for the a millionth time, I scowled at the portrait of the MIA golden boy who represented everything that I thought I was not. In the cool of night, my brother and I were wandering around the school hall after hours trying our best not to fit in. In the next room over was the fall dance on the basketball court and we at this point had done everything not succumb to the typical, everyday, student-body event. We had no plans of showing-up to this dance, but we couldn't resist poking our faces through the door window of the gym to spy on the pathetic gathering of adults and spoiled teens. As much as we hated Beverly Hills, we had to admit hating it from afar was a drag-now-hating it up close-that was a sight to see.

Different from the normal West Beverly apparel, I wore patterned pants which could pass for pajamas and my nappy curls tried to stay tucked under the thin rubber band I had forced on it. My brother stood beside me and he looked the same kind of awful. He had a red bump forming on the cleft of his chin, his power ranger shirt was two sizes too small, and he was wearing these old dress shoes that were peeling away with every step he took. Appearances didn't matter to us back then, we were two pissed off high school students, who had just been stripped from our father, living in a cramped apartment outside of town and attending a school that didn't even sorta reflect us. If anyone were to ask me what Beverly Hills was like, I would tell them that it was exactly what all the TV shows and magazines said it was: a place with a lot of money but no morals. (At least the part we went to was.)

In the corner of the dance room we spotted Detective Valerie Malone, her dress resembled the night sky painted a navy blue, decked with a glittering array of diamonds, she was beyond beautiful I had to admit. She had the naturally poufy lips, silk hair and she carried a gun-that's what those horny tenth graders loved the most. They assumed she was the sexier version of Robocop, or something.

"She looks nervous about something," My brother realized as he pressed his face up against the gym's door window even more. "I think Ms. Malone was forced to come here tonight." He grinned menacingly. He had a run in with the detective before when he vandalized her vehicle. She made him wait in a holding cell until Ms. Kay, his mother, came; he had despised her ever since. Whenever bad things happened to Malone he was thrilled, which was the reason why he was so excited when he noticed something had to be eating away at her that night.

I peeked in through the other window to get a full view of what he was seeing. "Yeah she is nervous looking." I saw Valerie's perfect almond-shaped eyes shoot to Mrs. Kelly Sanders, her sworn enemy. But Kelly couldn't afford to keep tabs on the detective because she was too busy ominously staring at her husband Steve Sanders. Steve Sanders, the billionaire, secretly whispered to the Chancellor of California University, Clare Arnold. He whispered to her passionately, (you could tell they dated before.) He did all this completely oblivious to the fact that his wife knew he was cheating or going to cheat with Clare.

My brother caught this too and announced in a loud whisper: "Front page, front page!" That was our inside joke whenever we saw an incriminating situation going down at the school. It doesn't matter how big or small the situation was you could count that it would be "front page" of someone's blog or paper. _Welcome to Beverly Hills where privacy is illegal!_

My eyes went back to Valerie Malone who stood alone with the champagne glass the Principal gave out just to the adults. She was searching for someone, trying to avoid someone, and just like a stalker would in a movie the one she was trying to avoid magically appeared. The famous music producer, David Silver surprised her from behind. By the rolling of her eyes, I could easily see that he was the one she was dreading. David Silver, a used-to-be handsome man, who dressed like a nineties pimp attempting to make scraggly beard fashionable again, whispered in her ear. He was trying to seduce her, but Valerie Malone wasn't having it.

My brother's eyes had already started to wonder elsewhere, but then he came back over to my side of the window when he heard me snickering. "What you looking at?"

It was then I began to explain. "Oh nothing new," I smirked. "David Silver is just trying to cheat on his wife with Detective Malone."

"I knew it. It's amazing these people have all the money in the world and they never seem to stay faithful." My brother said haughtily. "It's probably why his baby boy Scott Silver turned into a moppy crack addict."

"Or it's probably because you beat the living crap out of Scott in a beach brawl a few days ago. Which reminds me, you probably shouldn't be standing to close to the window. Mr. Silver and the rest of the fam might still want to press charges on you for that."

"Oh please, if they haven't done it already they never will." He rolled his eyes.

Scott Silver, the eldest son of David, was West Beverly's star quarterback, and he acted just like a star quarterback, living up to the stereotype of "wild parties at my place," "I sleep with too many skimpy girls," and "beer, beer, beer even though I'm under age."

"Bentley's been looking like death though," I added. My brother nodded his head agreeing with me. Bentley, the youngest Silver, was the for sure gay brother. He stuck by his mom and helped her with her fashion line. The more the days went by, he inched closer and closer to suicide. Since his mother stowed away to Tokyo to get away from his father and his sick antics he had not been the same. It was hilarious because their little family affair didn't even cover 20% of the action that was happening. Ms. Hannah Zuckerman, my English 4 teacher, was arguing with her mother, Dr. Zuckerman, about using her expensive education to become a school teacher and Dylan McKay, the famous poet, was taking shots of tequila behind the curtain. So far Beverly Hills was exactly what my father warned it would be proving to be the exact reason why my brothers and I should have just taken off with him.

The ceremony was beginning, and the principle stepped to the stage and explained why all these famous people (some of them former students) were present. A picture of a boy appeared on the screen behind; the boy's piercing blue eyes burned a hole in my face, his skin pale like the moon, his grin deceitful like a cheshire cat, and his lips bubble gum pink-and thin. The boy was obviously the honorable Saint Walsh. My brother and I moaned in disgust not sure if we should stick around or puke in the toilet. Then it hit me that all the deceitful, cheating, alcoholic, too rich, adults used to be friends of Saint Walsh, he was known for being the key person to all their success. And for that, I hated Saint Walsh more than all the others even though it had been twenty years since his footsteps landed in palm trees, pretty beach, Hollywood county. The Principle began to list the Saint's accomplishments rephrasing what was written on his plaque hanging in the hallway. "Brandon helped start the Beverly Beat with Steve Sanders… Brandon encouraged Zuckerman to be a Doctor… Brandon helped Donna Silver to graduate…" One thing after the other after the other.

My leg fell asleep at the sound of the monotonous speech that went stale after the first two hundred times I heard it. A boom echoed in the hall and then the principal's dry words came to an end and I assumed it was because they were shooting fireworks.

My brother took the words out of my mouth, "Are you serious fireworks?!"

We thought so, but then everyone paused and was looking around like they were trying to get a clue. Then the second "boom" went off and it was made perfectly clear what was going on when one girl in pink slips fell on the ground, blood oozing from her backside. This sight was not seen by my brother and I, it was too far from our prying eyes, and before we were ever to see what happened the room lit up and the students began to buzz and zoom about like wild confused bees. The doors to the court were kicked open and both of us went flying skidding across the hall into the nearest wall. A kick to the gut revived me and forced me to stumble to my feet, even in this process of trying to stand upright girls and boys all in their finest wear flew over me, above me, and all around me. You heard about crap like this on the news but you never thought you.

Bentley Silver took on the form of death that day and began unloading his gun. I think he meant to just kill his father, but once he got rolling he showed no sign of wanting to slow down. In the stampede of students, I lost my brother and couldn't gain sight of him anywhere. I stuck close to the wall attempting not to be thrown to the ground. I screamed, "Oliver! Oliver!" I was scared for him. I was scared for me. A million thoughts pounded my conscience at once, one of them being having to tell our dad that I got Oliver killed, an admission like that was too horrible to think of, and it made me take my mind off my battered state to focus on finding him. But almost immediately after another problem leaped to the forefront. Bentley caught me limping down the hall and in that second I became next victim. His eyes shot at me before his gun ever did and I went down the hall doing my best attempt at a dash. But my legs screamed, "No more!" and I dived to the ground hitting my head against another wall. Instinctively, I knew his bullet left the chamber and was gunning for me. I remember saying to myself, "I'm dead."

I left my eyes shut waiting for the call of God to tell me to "Arise." But that voice never came and I remained in pain on a cool tile floor. My eyelids slowly broke apart from each other and I saw the color of a brown thin layer paper over my head. I lifted my body. And when I was able to sit sorta upright I saw that the brown paper covering my face was just the back of a portrait, a gold framed portrait.

I hadn't realized the worst was over. Bentley laid out, face down, and flattened on the floor in front of me with another boy on top who speared him to the ground. That boy was Oliver Mulvaney-my brother. And the portrait covering me was a person much more unexpected. I looked over the gold frame and gasped. Saint Walsh was wrinkled because the tip of his slicked flattop fade caught the bullet, but still he kept his smile, it was the Saint who fell from his wall, his hall of fame, just in time to save me. I carefully removed the portrait from me like a prized artifact placing it to the side. My main concern was to get my brother out of this setting of blood and turmoil. I didn't move quick enough I suppose because the next step I took triggered the sound of a million sirens and at that moment the warzone transformed into an investigation. Cops flocked to the school with parents yelling, screaming, and crying. Peremetics peeled injured and deceased victims off the floor.

"Who did it?!"

"Who was he?!"

"What's happening?!"

These questions continued to fill the atmosphere, sulking the air, and making it hard to breathe. I thought I was just going to limp out the door with my bruised brother, but I was halted by officials as I tried to wrap his limped arm around my shoulder. The next thing I knew, the detectives were hoisting Bentley Silver up from the ground. He regained consciousness trembling as if he had no idea what had happened. They slapped the handcuffs on his wrist and began hauling him away as he shook and cried, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" For a half a second, I felt for him maybe because I wanted to do the same and cry "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" But I broke out of that two-year-old state quick and returned to my brother.

Oliver wasn't unconscious, just in shock. As he slowly came upright he uttered. "Did I get him?" I nodded my head, tear slipping from my bloodshot eyes, I was so proud. In that moment, my brother was my dad diving to the rescue and saving the day, like a true champ.

Waiting on the outside was our eldest brother, Ronnie. Releasing the oxygen from his lungs, Ronnie darted toward us kissing us both repeatedly. His dreadlocks fell over our shoulders; his tears saturated our torn clothing. We were having a family moment, a lovely moment, while in the background families were being torn apart.

As the medical team forced David Silver into the ambulance, he was able to spot his son being ushered into the police vehicle. He screamed at the top of his lungs with everything he had, "YOU LITTLE BITCH! HOW COULD YOU?!" He cried knowing that the family name was done for and that the name Silver would forever be dragged through the dirt.

The name Mulvaney, our last name, would take on a different outlook. The mayor would crown my outcast brother hero of the student body, a label the angry and defeated Scott Silver refused to accept. When his brother lifted the gun he went from football hero to zero-he wasn't about to praise my "rude" brother; the one who said his girlfriend was an inspiration to sluts all over America, even if he did possibly saved his life.

People died, fear had been ignited, but my family was safe. God had answered a desperate prayer, what more could I have asked for. We had to go to the hospital too, but before I went I ran back inside to the scene of the crime, crazy right? I took that slightly torn portrait of Saint Walsh, kissed it on the forehead, and hung it back on the wall. It was in that moment, for me, Walsh became a Saint.


	2. Oliver Mulvaney

Oliver Mulvaney

I was oil and water mixed together in a burning frying pan-just mad. With every minute, I popped sending out my boiling fumes, not caring who it harmed in the process. My mother got the bulk of my deadly rays because there was a story floating around amongst us siblings that she was the one who tore us away from our father. My father the coolest, gentlest, alcoholic I could think of, brash and confident even in his worst state and giver of the best hugs known to any man, or in this case, child. I might not have said, but I had plans, little sixteen year old me, to be a pissed off jerk until my father returned; Beverly Hills was going to feel my wrath.

This was before the school shooting that skyrocketed me to unfathomable fame, this just so happened to be the week before it. Treading down a dim lit path on the way to the abandoned part of the beach I immersed my brain in deep thought. The breeze cool, subtle, the skylights romantic, the smell of salt refreshing, much unlike the moment which was to come. It's amazing how you note every little detail of your surroundings right before you're about to do something stupid.

I was peeking into the synthetic jewelry stores and old stop-and-shops. I grazed my hand down the windows of the most famous diner the Peach Pit. I knew Donte and Rolland were going to meet me there, our competitors would also be there, no one knew about this little "gathering" except the ones invited. I knew all my boys were going to be looking to me that night, they expected me to do what I said I would do and that's kick the living crap out of the ones on the other side.

Knowing this, I couldn't take walking anymore, I glided into a light jog to my destination, to what I dramatically considered my calling; that's right; I was headed for a fight and I wasn't about to let anyone stop me.

Following the smell of under-aged drinking and a lit bonfire, I knew my opponent was already there. His name: Scott Silver. His father: David Silver. David Silver is a famous music producer. Bread in the DJ booth of West Beverly High he rose to fame with his quick wit and super dope beats becoming the superstar of his day. Along with being a superstar, he became a douche bag; my bad; I mean a bonafide douche bag. And his son Scott Silver was following closely in his footsteps.

My friends and I hated these rich snobs. They always thought that just because they were raised with no manners that they could throw people around. That was about to get fixed.

On the coast I arrived, and Scott Silver was waiting. He was tall and long faced, built like a Backstreet Boy and furious like a mother***. When I think about it, he looked a little bit like Saint Walsh. He had the same devilish grin and the same eyes of arrogance. If I was to envision Saint Walsh standing before me I would assume he'd be a Scott Silver, which made what I was about to do a whole lot easier. Smirking back at Donte and Rolland, they sounded off saying things like "Rich boy really gonna get smack!"

I cracked my knuckles and loosened my muscles, because even though I was visibly just a scrawny little white boy my dad had taught me a few of his moves. He was always afraid that something would happen to us because he lived his life out on the run so every Saturday morning he would pull me aside, only me, and tell me, "let me show you how to fight like a Power Ranger." It was my father's teachings that assured me I would be victorious. There I was standing upfront, the only white boy amongst my friends, and on the other side was Scott Silver. Who was Silver's back up guys? Only the preppiest set of white boys ever. On his right, was the famous poet's son Ace McKay and to his left was the billionaire's son Joshua Sanders. All of them were heirs to what they called the Saint Walsh Money Circle. Didn't matter if their aspirations were just to chill in the pool the rest of their lives, they could still make money. Loaded on liquor they screamed, "KILL HIM!"

They hated me, and I hated them.

Scott took another swallow of beer and began swinging. He was extremely off-balanced which allowed me to knock him off his feet easily. Scott collapsed onto the sand like an oak tree in a forest, heavy and with a loud thud. Wasting no time, with a burst of luchador-ness I pounced on him with my elbow out diving right at his chest. Satisfaction hit when I heard him cry out in pain. I could have easily ended it right then but the crowd participation urged me on and I brought Scott Silver back to his feet only to knee him in the jaw sending him tumbling back into the sand again. I licked my lips tasting the blood that shot up from his mouth. At this point, it hadn't even been a full ten minutes and the star quarterback's face was stained with purple and red blotches. My boys were slapping me on the back and my oppressors were shocked into confusion. Their faces of surprise thrilled me. I delivered an ominous cackle having beat up Scott Silver so bad that he was motionless on the beach's floor.

My back was turned, so I didn't see Joshua and Ace darting towards me. They speared me to the ground and what was only meant to be a one-on-one affair turned into an all out battle. The five of us went at it like our lives depended upon it and we had no intent of stopping the mayhem.

What occurred next was a string of blurred events which all seemed foggy to me. Something hard came over my head and I unwillingly dropped. I could feel the little stream of blood bursting from my skin and parting a path down the tip of my cranium to my neck. Even in this moment of nearly fainting, I remained conscious to witness my attacker; a furious Steve Sanders. He marched over grabbing his son Joshua pulling him to his feet and cursing at him. He did the same to Ace McKay and Scott Silver. A moment which read clear as day, a father concerned and coming to defend his kid I interpreted as "look the rich boys are going to get away again!" Then I did the boldest move, leaping from my frozen state I pounced on Mr. Sanders, and his backside nearly landed in the center of our campfire flame. I don't know what came over me but even with his clothes parched I continue to beat on him. Rolland and Donte were trying to break my hold at this point, because from far off it was slowly starting to look like attempted murder. The rest of the boys came in to get me off of Mr. Sanders. They finally gripped my arms and collectively threw me across the sand floor. My cheeks collided with the coast and the serene night water gently kissed my face coming and leaving with my blood. With scared faces, the guys peered at me as I laid helpless on my stomach like I was some sort of alien, or even more so a maniac. Joshua helped his father to his feet as the rest stayed as far away from me as possible. The next thing I knew I was being hauled away by a member of another outside party; my brother; Ronnie. Where did he come from? I had no idea. Ronnie had been coming home late from studying he said, but I knew whatever he was doing some girl was involved. He had a serious woman addiction.

Ronnie didn't need to be present for long to know that I had gotten myself in deep crap. He carried me over the mounds of sand and forced my limped body into my mom's broken down Chevy, slamming his foot on the gas we sped away. A faint voice could be heard attempting to chase us down, "YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS MULVANEY!" I recognized it as Joshua Sanders.

When my brother was sure we were ok and safe from any trailing cars he slammed his hands on the steering wheel. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING OLIVER!?"

My head was pressed against the leather door oozing blood from the side of my mouth. On the outside, I appeared more like a drunk passenger than a person who won a fight. I didn't hesitate to scream at my brother telling him that those boys disrespected us, "they are racist and crude," I rebottled. I went on and on and on giving my brother instances of a time when Mr. Sanders did this and when Scott Silver did that; wanting to hype up my argument. I went off and when I was done my brother slowed down and parked on an abandoned curb. It was the most deserted place in Beverly Hills with one wandering flyer dancing in the wind. We were underneath a dying street light and that's when he turned his whole body around to see me. It must have been the brokenness of my state, but he looked especially like my father in that moment. No, my dad didn't have mixed guy dreads, or mixed guy mocha skin, like my brother, but he did have kind eyes, that's what my brother inherited from him; his kind eyes.

Ronnie picked up my hand, squeezed it gently, and shed a small tear on my behalf. He didn't think I saw it, but the tear was there traveling like a shooting star leaping off his chin.

"What's wrong?" I asked bewildered, which was my final line, because I fainted right there in that car with my brother holding my hand. Getting hit in the head makes you delusional, and you want to know how I know? Because what I thought I told my brother wasn't what I told him. When Ronnie resounded: "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING OLIVER?!"

I thought I was rambling on about respect when really I whimpered, "Don't tell Daddy, Don't tell him! Scott Silver, Ace McKay, Joshua Sanders… all their dads get to be there for them. Why not mine? I didn't mean to do it, it's just when I saw Steve Sanders coming to his son's rescue it reminded me that daddy was not coming for me. I hate this place. I hate it so much! I want my daddy!"

It was then my brother knew that all those talks of how bad the Silvers, McKays, and the Sanders were just figments of my imagination. Because I needed something to hate. Because if I didn't find something to hate I would end up hating dad. And it didn't matter how much of this was dad's fault I couldn't hate him.


	3. Ronnie Mulvaney

Ronnie Mulvaney

California University was a jungle, especially at two in the morning. The library had just closed so a mass exodus was taking place from the world of books to the dorms. I, Ronnie Mulvaney, was returning home. I had a long drive to go from school to the apartment so I rushed a bit quicker than the rest of the horde. Once I get home, I would only have four hours of sleep to look forward to and then back on the road for school again. Madeline was right, why did I attend this university? Johnston Community College was literally right down the road from where I lived, it was basically free for me with scholarship, and I would get the same good education. I tried convincing Madeline that there was more opportunity at Cal-University for a Comm Major than at any regular college. The broadcasting studio was more equipped, I argued, it was more diverse which meant it offered more opportunity for networking. In reality it had nothing to do with any of that…

The truth was the University campus was huge, with bushes of expensive roses, the air fermented with perfume, the buildings rose over my head. The money invested into the establishment was lots. To a nineteen year old these things were important. After getting out of high school it feels good to be at a place where it's made obvious that you're a step above everyone else. So in a sense I did what my siblings JC and Oliver told me not to do, I got mesmerized by Beverly Hills' number one recommended university, and all its prestigious-ness.

In the frat headquarters (I called it) hung Steve Sanders, the man who ruled everything. It was a picture of him in his youth standing beside the fraternity building in its late 90's. The wallpaper in the DJ booth for broadcasting had none other than David Silver and his wife Donna plastered all over it. In the psych department were countless photos of who everyone called the stunning Kelly Taylor-Sanders and last but not least Saint Walsh had another gallery dedicated to him because he was also student-body president there too. Right beside the Saint's enlarged sophomore photo were personal heartfelt words about him from former chancellor Milton Arnold along with heartfelt words about him from the current chancellor, Milton's daughter, Clare Arnold. (Gotta love Saint Walsh). What I mean is I thought California University was the place of Gods, and it was nice to be a part of it.

Life was exactly the way I wanted it to be, not too good to be considered a fantasy and not to bad to be called a nightmare; all the interesting stuff wouldn't happen until later. This was three days before my brother got into that massive fight and ten days before my sister almost got shot by Bentley Silver. This is more of a love story. Not the familiar one that you're thinking of, but one that sorta runs in the family (you won't get this phrase until you read to the end… the very end.)

I headed for my crappy car that night and caught Sam from my Anatomy class sitting right on top of it. Now usually I didn't have a thing for white chicks (I never wanted to be the stereotypical mixed guy who went for blondes just because I was lighter.) But there was something about this blonde cutie, she smoked a cigarette that night because her parents would kill her if they caught her, and she wore a revealing cheerleading uniform because her parents would kill her if they caught her.

Every time I was with her I felt like the dork in one of those old 90's films that secretly was scoring the hot girl. The thrill had a lot to do with the fact that she just wasn't any girl; she was Steve Sanders second daughter.

"How's it goin' stud?" She said seductively trying to give her best Sandy from Grease impression.

I flirtatiously chuckled (something about women on cars always got me goin'.) "Not too good?" I jested. "You're on top on my vehicle which means I'm not going to be able to get home."

"What's so bad about that? Thought you wanted to lose sleep." In case you didn't get that innuendo, she was talking about sex. We hit it off one time at an Ace McKay party, and she hadn't detached from me since. It was weird because I didn't want to stay with her, but didn't want to leave her either.

"Stay… for just a half an hour. Please!" She begged. Shortly after it was off to the races. I had no fight and no "no" within me.

Strange-it didn't even take us getting to her room to start kissing. Thirty minutes turned into forty-five, just like they always did, the whole sex-affair was like déjà-vu every time (like I had done this a million times even though we had been seeing each other only for a week.)

After we were done, Samantha wined, "Don't go Ronnie!"

And I said, "But I have too."

And then she would cry, "Noooo…" I'm not trying to build myself up this was exactly how she sounded.

Three minutes to three, I left out her room considering sleeping in the school parking lot, at this point it appeared I was gonna get no rest.

Its funny how life works, I found myself walking to my car about to start the departure cycle all over again and lo and behold, who would I run into, Madeline. The parking lot was a ghost town with the accompaniment of a light fog. In this deluded smokiness, there was Madeline waiting by my crappy Chevy (at least I knew they loved me not for my materialistic value.) This wasn't so much of a girl as she was a young woman about the age of twenty-three. Her mother the Chancellor of this University and her father… well I'll get to that later.

"Hey kiddo," she called out to me jokingly, because I was four years younger than her. "What you doing out so late?"

"Well I didn't really want to head home just yet. I told you how my brother's mother is a pain. I decided to kick it in the lounging area to study instead." I lied knowing that if she found out that I was sleeping with Samantha she would never want to speak to me again.

"I see," She smiled. Her smile-I loved. Madeline's smile was so kind, so genuine, that it had the ability to bring anyone to peace. One look at her and you knew she was the smartest and the most stressed person in the world, but she still found a way to always give me that smile. "I saw your car, and I thought 'I hope he didn't get kidnapped.'"

"Me? No… wait… now that I think about… maybe. I'm black but my dreads are sorta blonde and blondes are always hot on the serial killer market, so hey, a possibility."

"You're so weird."

"I think the question is, what are you doing here at this time of night?"

"Law exam. So studying late much like you."

"You know you're an 'A' student Maddie, why do you even fret?"

"This is a very strenuous exam and my father and mother expect higher than a passing score. Plus I would like to rub it in my stepmother's face."

"I got it. Mom's the chancellor, and you think you're not your dad's favorite daughter-"

"I told you Mulvaney that that's not the case-"

"But it is Maddie. It reads like a storybook. You're the daughter of Chancellor Clare and a little bit over twenty years ago Chancellor Clare and your dad made you. But then dad broke up with the Chancellor to marry his high school sweetheart and you fear that you're not of the same importance as his wife's kids, so you assume that if you make the stellar grades you can be one step above your your siblings. And what makes it even harder is your half sister goes here now."

Maddie sighed. "Is it that obvious?" Her face reverted to an innocent sad puppy expression.

It had been a rough couple of months for me, having to move to Beverly Hills with my brother's demon possessed mother and having to find my way in a town that didn't always suit me. I often times said I didn't have the compassion to care about anyone else, but something broke inside me when I saw Maddie depressed.

Most days I thought before I acted, but in that serene moment my instinctive nature took over. I clasp both my hands on her cheeks, moved in and kissed her. It wasn't a short one either; I slowly began to wrap my arms around her waist gently dipping her onto the hood of my car.

When we separated we were not left long without daunting questions. Her mouth stayed open obviously thinking, "Stupid Maddie he's too young."

I wore the fake smile on my face to cloak the shame that I had sex with one sister and kissed the other-in one night. That's right, Steve Sanders' oldest daughter was Madeline Sanders, and with several wrong moves I was on the verge of ruining her already fragile self-confidence. _Are you out of your mind?_ I posed this question to myself. _Why did I kiss her?_ Maybe it was the thrill of having been with both daughters of Steve Sanders.

Maddie tried to act like she didn't take to my romantic gesture, but the problem was she did. She adjusted her glasses and stumbled back nervously. "Umm…" she wondered. "We shouldn't talk about this." She suggested with a beaming grin on her face.

"I agree."

My left foot had pivoted away, I wanted to get as far away from this issue as possible, all I had to do was drive off and forget this ever happened. But I wouldn't get to because before I could take the handle of the car door Madeline swooped me back into her space and kissed me again, this one being a little bit longer than the last. She tugged on my old white tee and her hand ran up and down my Goodwill vest.

Unfortunately, the kiss was amazing and a second too late. A slamming-door sound was what came after and then an irritating call of my name.

"RONNIE!"

"RONNIE!"

Ms. Kay screamed out. Who was Ms. Kay? None other than my brother's mother. She was Cinderella ten years in the future after Prince Charming called off their marriage because he was in love with her eighteen year old sister. Easily, the bitterest woman I had ever encountered and the only thing that gave her a smidget of joy was my brother, her son, Oliver. (It's funny because Oliver didn't even like her.)

She dashed out of her Uber like a cop on pursuit gunning for me as if I was a criminal. "RONNIE! Why the hell are you still here?!"

You best believe that I didn't even get the chance to answer; she threw out her never ending string of cuss words about not having the car in on time, and being out this late, and how I was a joke just like my old man. Much like all our confrontations it was one-sided; I let her have at me, because I was a resident in her place. The bad part about this little squabble was Maddie was just footsteps away observing the encounter.

"Get in the car!" Ms. Kay told me. "I'm driving!"

With my lower lip tucked in my mouth, I headed toward the passenger seat. All I could think was the embarrassment was the humility I deserved, after the crime against the opposite sex I committed I deserved far worst.

I was prepared to hop in the car then Maddie interjected. "Ms. Kay…"

"Yes," My brother's mother said rudely.

"He was helping me with my homework." Maddie's shoulders were leaned back and her stance was firm. She looked especially like her mother in that position.

"And who are you? Some tramp from the library?"

"No in fact, my mother is Chancellor Arnold and my father is Steve Sanders."

This left Ms. Kay without a word to utter, when names such as Clare Arnold and Steve Sanders were thrown around the present individual was forced to halt all movement. The only other name that could equally carry the same weight was Saint Walsh.

"I'm sorry," Ms. Kay apologized. She nodded her head as if she was suddenly in the presence of royalty. I had seen Maddie and her siblings with her father. When he stepped on campus he was Jesus and anyone who spoke negatively about him was destroyed. Ms. Kay knew this better than anyone.

"Apology accepted, but I would like for you to treat the brother of your son with mercy. I could not have gotten through this night without him."

"Oh," Ms. Kay synthetically chuckled. "Well how bout that. Ronnie get in the car." She said her words now heavy with kindness. Before I slid in my seat I gave a discrete wink to Maddie as a way of saying "thanks." And as we rolled away it occurred to me that that was another flirtatious gesture. What was I doing? I had won this fight, as in Ms. Kay remained silent for the rest of the ride, but lost the war, and what was I to say to both Sanders sisters. _Oh brother._

I reached home that night nearing five in the morning, Oliver and JC were still fast asleep and I was still in deep thought. I tried to understand why I did what I did. The most obvious answer being that I was horny. Both girls were rich and beautiful, of course, I would want to be with both, _who wouldn't?!_

But the more I thought, the more I realized that wasn't quite it, at least it wasn't all of it. The first night I was with Samantha she was in the corner of the McKay mansion trying not to get intoxicated. She knew the way of the party life and she didn't want to fall into the same old trend. So she found me. I was invited by an acquaintance and immediately I got lost in the boat loads of electrified students. She pulled me out of the howling crowd of lit football players and sat me down; it wasn't long before we were talking like we always knew each other. It took one night, and I was crazy about her.

Then there was her older sister Madeline. I went searching for a tutor who could re-read my papers and she was my go-to-gal. There was something so intriguing about her. She didn't walk around the campus like she was some runway model and though she never told her story it was always so plainly written on her face. I was never the guy to dream of being with someone older, it just sorta happened between us. And because it sorta happened there I was in the middle of two sisters. These things never happened in Layton, Ohio, it was definitely a Beverly Hills' thing. Or was it a generational thing? My father always said he had a bad habit of falling in love too hard, too fast, and with too many girls. Maybe I inherited that from him. I remembered me sarcastically thinking, _Thanks Dad_.


	4. Lisa Kay

Lisa Kay

Life died when I discovered my husband in bed with my little sister on her prom night. There used to be a day when I was a happy administrator, a delicate soul who still attended church, a hopeful woman looking forward to motherhood, until I came upon that terrifying sight. I remembered my lunch pack crashing to the floor, the left over bits of a Subway spreading on the carpet as I witnessed the two of them rushing to put on their clothes. I, on the other hand, leaned over, like a dummy, to pick the food off the ground. Since then, my world had consisted of just that, picking up fallen pieces, but never really succeeding.

But why bother you with these details-you already sorta knew this.

What you don't know is, shortly after, I met the charming Todd Mulvaney. He romanced me with his equally dark story of wild romances, and for just a brief moment I felt not as alone. He promised me a cut and dry one night stand, one where he would be gone by morning, this went as planned, but something unexpected happened. I got pregnant with my one and only son, Oliver James. And that's when this wild ride officially began.

I didn't want to get back in contact with Todd, but I had no choice, any wealth I had was tied to my dirt bag ex husband, so moving in with Mr. Mulvaney was my only option.

The process of moving in with him being just as I expected-dreadful.

He was beautiful for our night introduction, but when I really got to know him his beauty quickly melted away. The next fifteen years I was in complete distress mode. Let me tell you how this guy had no money: nothing. His father did, but he insisted on not taking any more from him. He had two other black-mixed kids who looked nothing like my perfect baby boy.

The first ten years of our time together we lived in his father's house, a man named Vincent Mulvaney, a man he hardly knew. And as unbearable as that was, our mixed up home situation had nothing on his annoying, transformational, complex history. He had told me a year before he met me his name was something else. Then a year before that he met his real father: Vincent. Then some years before that all his family died in the same month. It was like he was cursed or something. He had the oddest job as a private investigator. Most of the time, he would go around acting as though he was James Bond; leaving then coming back then leaving again. Horrible.

Now that I have completed exposition, I can tell you how we ended in Hollywood city. Oliver's fifteenth birthday had recently passed and Todd approached me to ask if I could take Oliver with me to Phoenix. This worked out perfectly because I was gonna take my son anyway. Then came the catch, (because with Todd there is always a catch), he then basically begged me to take Ronnie and JC, his older kids, as well. Furious as I was, I knew I had to take them because Oliver would have hated me even more if I didn't.

Halfway to Phoenix, I got a call for an even better job in Universal City, California, some place right next to Beverly Hills. It was in that moment I had a huge decision to make. I knew Todd would despise me if I switched to the Hills (for some reason he detested California and never wanted me to take Oliver there.) But I felt my happiness was on the line, and I was already doing him a solid by taking his other rude kids. So to California we headed, I made plans immediately. The children fussed at me, and I didn't care, because it was about damn time that Lisa Kay got what she wanted.

"So don't tell your father." I warned them. "Or I know at least two of you that will be out on the side of the road."

Despite what the kids thought California was wonderful; Beverly Hills a dream, which perfectly described all it would ever be to me; a dream. Todd abandoning his kids was weird, but I couldn't consider him and his problems anymore so I moved to Beverly Hills. The move being just what I needed. As far as it being good for Oliver… not so much. Right when I declared happiness, mayhem struck, and I got a call from the police station.

Now this happened approximately three months before the night my Oliver saved the school and two months and several days before Oliver's big fight and me catching Ronnie in the middle of the night with my car. This was right around when our little journey in the Hills began.

I entered the Beverly Hills justice facility fuming with fire shooting out from my ears. "Where's my son?! Where's my son?!" I demanded preparing to cave in the face of the cop who apprehended him. It didn't matter who it was, I would kick a guy in his sack for my son, it didn't matter if he was right or wrong, my son could not have a record.

The officer guarding the front pointed his thick finger to the left claiming that a Detective Malone would be out to see me shortly. In the meantime, I paced in anger, my face shifting red and my mouth pouting.

Within ten minutes, Detective Malone swung around the corner in her fitted navy blue pants suit with her gun tucked away underneath it. My thoughts went from mother of fury to mother of envy; to say Detective Malone was gorgeous was an understatement. Gotta love Beverly Hills, even their enforcement was Vogue ready.

"Mrs. Kay," Detective Malone raised her eyebrows and wiped the smile from her face. "You're Oliver's mother?"

"The hell-I mean yes I am!" I was angry now because I didn't know how to react. I didn't know whether to act coldly to her because she arrested my son or because she looked way better than me.

"Follow me." She said. I wanted to engage in heated confrontation, but her firm tone made me naturally obey and trail behind her.

We sat at her cubicle, the one neatly piled with papers, and old Twizzler wrappers. Off to the side of her desk, all by its lonesome was a framed picture of her and who I was predicting to be her old boyfriend. "Ms. Kay I hope you know that I did not bring you here to waste your time. Your son-"

"Are you like from Victoria Secret or somethin'?" This question inquired in disgust because of jealousy, and wanting to piss someone off.

"No-I'm a cop. Now back to your son. He is on the fast track to some extremely hard time. I caught him vandalizing my car."

"He's a kid prom queen; he wrecks stuff. That's what he's supposed to do."

"Yeah and he's about to be a kid in a jail."

"I don't have time for this. Where is my son?"

"In a cell learning his lesson."

"Do you think you're a better mother than me?"

"That is not what I said!" She exclaimed.

"What are you gonna do Primma Donna? Kick me and my son out of Beverly Hills?"

She glimpsed at the hurt on my face and started to reconsider her next words. She brushed her fingers over my knuckles sending shockwaves of peace through my body. For a second, I was in love, but then I remembered that she was a woman, and even if she swung the other way such a powerful beauty wouldn't go for an old hag like me.

"I know what it's like being the new girl and not fitting in."

"I'm just fine, thank you." I whimpered letting a sliver of a tear escape my eye. "Besides you look perfect. How would you know what I'm going through?"

"It's not easy living in a place that holds so much expectation. If you come in with no money and barely a place to stay people start wondering what you're doing here."

"Yep that's me."

"That was me. The only reason I stayed afloat was because of the Walshes."

I tilted my head off to jog my memory, and then I remembered that I had heard that popular last name being thrown around at my job. "Walsh, like Saint Walsh."

"Yes that's the one."

"So you knew his family?"

" _Stayed_ with his family. Yeah I shared a bathroom with him and all. When his sister moved to England I took her room. I knew him since five, but it was when I moved to Beverly Hills that we really became close. And, of course, through him I met the Sanders, Andrea Zuckerman, Dylan McKay etc."

"So there's this campfire story that Saint Walsh disappeared after college along with the rest of his family?"

"I wish I can say different, but it's just like that. After we graduated from college he went to Washington and that's the last time we heard from him and his wonderful family."

"My God. With Social Media and stuff I thought it was impossible for people to just vanish."

"I thought so too. But I'm holding out for their return."

"But more so him."

"Yeah… I guess… I was closer to him than everyone else. He took care of me when nobody else would. When he left I realized how much I was crazy about him."

She meant "when he left I realized how much I was in love with him." The Detective was excellent at a stone face, but this emotion she could not hide. She fell head-over-heels in love with this fairytale boy just like everyone in this wealthy town did and there was no doubt she stuck around because she wanted to be near him. I mean my God, I heard Oliver when he came in from school one day, he said, they had a big portrait of Saint Walsh hanging in the hall, there was no getting away from him.

"I guess Steve promotes him so much because he doesn't want to forget all that Brandon has done for him, and all of us." The Detective said.

I took all this in, and in the midst of the discussion it occurred to me that I never gotta really good look at Saint Walsh. "Is that a picture of him right there?" It was the photo I had observed before and predicted to be her boyfriend.

Detective Malone picked it up and placed it in my hands.

"This was taken a couple weeks into my stay. Brandon's mom Cindy took it in the kitchen of their house. She gave it to me the day they left Beverly Hills permanently for Hong Kong."

In the photo, Detective Malone sat perched up on the countertops; her face only being a tid bit smoother, her hair a tid bit shorter than what it looked like right now. She had a smile of mischief etched on her face and her smooth legs dangled from her thin waist. She was perfection. This did not surprise me. Saint Walsh, on the other hand, did. There he was a young boy with the golden version of an Elvis Presley haircut, his body slim, his eyes bluer than the sky, and his smile prettier than that of an actual girl. He was charming, much like someone else I knew.


	5. Todd Mulvaney

Todd Mulvaney

California University Graduation 1997.

The young, brash, popular, handsome, successful Brandon Walsh prepared himself to walk across the stage one last time. _Boy had time flown_ , he thought, completely unaware of what the day would bring. His final school year had proven to be nothing less than exciting; pregnancy scares, break-ups, and scandals built only for television. He would say these unexpected events came as a surprise, but hey, he lived in Beverly Hills: nothing ever came as a surprise.

While he put on his coat and tie he saw a letter off to the side.

It was from Valerie Malone. He opened it. The note was written in smeared blue ink, but the words very clear, she was going to commit suicide, and there was no turning back. This startled him and suddenly the best day turned into a nightmare.

After scrambling around for hours Brandon Walsh arrived at the ledge of a highway; and at the end of that ledge a pretty lady in a black dress stood.

"Valerie." The valiant Walsh cried out to the woman. His tie flapped in the wild wind as he loosened his buttons, and untucked his shirt. "Valerie" he cried again. "Don't do this!"

And right before he assumed nothing else could be done she spun around calm, collected, and said, "Go away Brandon."

It was hilarious in the darkest of ways, she thought that with a simple command he would turn his back on her and let some random SUV flatten her on the way down. He instead did the opposite and climbed over the guardrail to meet her at world's end. Coincidentally, and metaphorically graduating college felt much like this; like being on a rickety ledge with a suicidal girl wondering if your feet would stay planted on the ground or break upon a blistering hot pavement.

Brandon's voice was surprisingly steady, maybe because he always knew he would get to this point with Valerie. She was so hurt, so scarred from her father's passing, the only thing she hadn't done was attempted to take her life like her father took his.

"If you get off now we can still make it back to graduation." He told her, hoping that if he promised their togetherness during the ceremony it would cause her to reconsider. Brandon knew what this situation was about; love; in its stupidest form.

Just last week he kicked Valerie out the house because his fiancé Kelly (who would later be Kelly Sanders) couldn't stand her. It was simple, yet complex, Kelly had him and Valerie wanted him, Brandon was attracted to Valerie, but trusted Kelly. The issues of his love life re-emerged that day when all he wanted to do was be handed a diploma.

Thankfully, consoling Valerie worked, she took him by the arm and he was able to get her off the ledge. For a brief second, as they rushed to the ceremony she felt as though she was running away with the love of her life.

They arrived in the nick of time. Brandon had just been called up for an award and it appeared that the day would end perfectly after all. Walsh went up to receive his trophy. _"Focus on this moment."_ He begged himself _. "In just a minute or so you're going to be a full blown adult. Adults make the big decisions, and they make it look easy."_ There were some who didn't make it to this moment, Stewart and who could forget Scott Scanlon, so he was happy and thrilled to even have made it to this point. After all, what more could a man ask for than to be celebrated on stage with his friends and family looking on.

This happened twenty-three years ago. Before JC, before Oliver, before Ronnie, before Lisa.

The visual of Walsh raising his golden trophy would be the image that would propel him into his future. What I mean by this is, him on top of the stage as a victor is exactly how everyone would remember him. They would not get the unfortunate pleasure of seeing what happened next. Kelly would call off the wedding, and he would leave her for his best friend Steve Sanders to marry and then he would head to Washington DC.

Now what happens after that is really interesting.

The night he traveled to Washington was the night he got a call that his twin sister died in England. Brenda was her name, and just as Brandon had suspected the jerk she was dating was actually a jerk, and killed her.

So right when he got off the plane he was reversing back into the airport for another flight to England. And then it got even better. While he was identifying his sister in the morgue his parent's plane went down upon take-off. Then Brandon Walsh had to fly over to Hong Kong. Scared to death of planes and with the funeral cost of his sister on his mind, he stepped into the Hong Kong hospital where the staff gave him another burden. "Your father is dead." They said and he broke down on the floor.

He hastily wiped his tears because he had to hold his mother's hand for six hours after until she finally passed. In the midst of everything, phone calls from London kept coming in, "when will you retrieve the body of Brenda Walsh?" they begged and he provided no answer. He had no money so he told them to dispose of her like common trash; his own twin. He got his parents ashes and placed their remains in a garden before he took everything he had and caught a flight back to the States. When it was all done he would received a call from his bud Sanders, "yo man haven't heard from you, how's those congressional chicks? Are they smokin'?"

With a solemn face and an upbeat tone he would respond, "Not as hot as you man."

Little did Brandon know this would be the last words he would utter to the Hills; for the next part of his life he would watch it from afar much like everyone else.

That year 1998, Brandon Walsh absolutely understood why Valerie was at that ledge. He stood at the end of many that year hoping some natural disaster would nudge him off the edge. But every time he tried he thought, "is this how the Walsh legacy will die?" He lost all contact with every one of his family members back in Minnesota, so he was alone.

The only thing he found comfort in was the idea that he couldn't possibly go through anymore pain. He took up a job as a private investigator, which came a little too easy given the magnitude of the company. But he was willing to overlook his suspicion once he saw his first paycheck. For three years, he worked for the company becoming skilled at finding rich white women's dirty cheating husbands.

The company owner had ties to the greatest techs back then and had given him the option of erasing all the web history of his parents' crash and his sister's murder.

He wanted no one to find him.

The year 2000 fatherhood entered the equation. Because how could it not? He couldn't keep track of his condoms or his penis. Brandon didn't care what no one said. Sex numbed pain. He was almost for certain he was strung up on something when his first son was born, but he lost the ability to care.

Then a little bit after his second daughter was born a hard dose of reality hit him like a bus. The boss, the guy who gave him the huge opportunity of becoming an investigator, along with everything else he wanted was his biological father. How? Something about him having an affair with his mother in Minnesota. "But how?" He begged. "I'm a twin I know that much!" Then they went to the doctor together and discovered that the one and a million chance happened. Victor Mulvaney was Brandon Walsh's father. And thus, Todd Mulvaney was born-oh yeah, just to clear the air, that's me.

"I wanted to tell you Brandon," My biological father declared. "But when I confronted your mother in Minnesota about the affair she was in complete denial. She had the happy family, with the good marriage and the kids and she didn't want to ruin it. Her mental state wouldn't allow her to. Plus I saw Brenda, and I was like she looks just like your dad Jim, so she must be right. I was in my early twenties, so what did I know. I spun back around to your hometown ten years later and the neighbor showed me an updated picture of your family. Yeah, Brenda still looked a lot like her dad, but you were the spitting image of me. And that's how I knew you were mine. But by then you were already in California."

I couldn't say anything but, "I think I like the name Todd." I was motionless and stoic sitting in an up scaled clinic. Only the word-done-could describe how I felt.

The old man thought I wasn't being receptive so he continued with his story. "I woke up from a nightmare one day and decided to track you down and that's when I found you-alone and without a family. I thought you might need me more than ever so I stepped in, had my manager offer you the job. I didn't want to shock you so I waited-"

"Yeah Todd is a good name."

"Brandon are you listening? Are you ok? Give me something."

Victor's diamond blue eyes followed even my tiny movements; he was profiling me, investigating me, trying to figure out how to put me back together. Little did he know, it would be a lot easier then he thought. "Call me Todd." I requested politely.

"What?"

"You're my dad. And you want to help me, right?"

"Yes but-"

"Then I want your name, Todd Mulvaney. I'll have to switch Ronnie and Jaime's name too…." I automatically began looking up facilities on the nearby computer that did work such as that.

"Wait-Bran-I mean Todd… Ugh! Why do you want to change your name? You can keep Brandon Walsh? I don't mind."

"No." I shrugged my shoulders as I continued scrolling down on the computer. "If I'm not actually a Walsh, and I don't feel like a Walsh, then why should I pretend to be one."

Blinking my eyes, and there I sat seventeen years later, not aging as well as I hoped, with peach fuzz of brown around my thin pink lips. My head more round, the tired cloaking my perfect blue eyes. I thought the day would be the day I called the kids to explain what was happening with me. Having been struggling these past couple of weeks to talk with them, because I had the crappiest excuse of why I left them high and dry. I said today was the day to make it right. There was now no excuse I had to check in or I could officially check myself into the dead-beat-dad club. I reached for the IPhone, intentionally allowing myself to get distracted by the notifications. _Just say it Todd. Just say that you left to find yourself so you could be a better father to them. Let them know what went down. How you got to this point. Tell them about Brandon, and how you became Todd Mulvaney._

I couldn't believe I was about to dump all this on them in one go, but I had to. As a father, I should be interested in what they were doing. My kids moved to Phoenix, which was a hundred times hotter than anything they had ever known, I should be asking about how things were going. But… I already sorta knew how things were going. I mean these were my kids, and even though being in there life hadn't always been a constant, I knew them better than they knew themselves. JC at this point was most likely distant, and dressing in her patterned pants that looked like pajamas. For some reason, whenever I would leave she would try her best not to dress nice. Oliver was fighting. I was happy I didn't get a call from his mother yet. Ronnie: sleeping around and getting in trouble with some girl.

I threw back my head.

I literally just listed the reasons to why I had to call. I put down my phone and then went to pick it up again figuring I would go down oldest to youngest and find out individually if they were alright, but before I could even touch the cell again, it started to ring. Flipping it over in my hand, I saw it was Lisa calling. _Well I guess I have to speak to her to._ I picked up, "hello," I answered. And she fed me the most outrageous news. "I'm in Beverly Hills" she told me. "I don't have time to explain… there was a school shooting at West Beverly High. Oliver and JC were caught in the crossfire. They are alright…. They took them to the hospital. Can you meet me there?"

In that short discussion, all I could utter was "huh," "what," "wait," and "Beverly Hills!" A second after she hung up, I pondered if I was being pranked. Phoenix… Lisa told me she was going to Phoenix! Why in the hell were my kids in Beverly Hills?! I had to take to the internet; this was too foreign, too unbelievable. I mean I could believe Lisa would, out of anger, take them somewhere else but what were the odds that she would take them to BEVERLY HILLS?!

When I opened my laptop, sure enough, breaking news showed that a school shooting had occurred at Wes Bev High. Shooter: Bentley Silver aka David Silvers' son aka my old pal.

So another extreme coincidence occurred. I caught a flight to the place I said I would never return to. All I could do was hope that I could fly under the radar while I was there.

(Ha ha ha ha…. How stupid of a thought that was?)

We wouldn't be telling this story if I actually went to Beverly Hills unseen.

But still I was hopeful so I thought "Maybe they moved on? Maybe they forgot about me? Maybe they didn't care?"

These inaccurate thoughts were buzzing in my mind as I counted the palm trees on the way to the hospital. Beverly Hills was still Beverly Hills. It was gorgeous, perfect for a postcard, elegant, flashy. It was not as miraculous as when I first saw it, but it was the spitting image of home, and I unfortunately still found comfort in it.

The hospital was full, Alive, with cameras, and people, lots and lots of people.

 _Gotta get to my kids!_

 _Gotta get to my kids!_

I rehearsed in my brain and nothing could steer me off course… or so I thought. When I finally plowed myself into the lobby full of weeping parents a small photo off to the side stole my attention. It halted me in my steps and begged me to take time out of my critical moment to look at it. It was a picture of Brandon Walsh caring for the sick kids in his California University President days. He had one child coddled in his arms and a boyish smile of glee on his face.

In my mind I said, "I knew that guy." But my God, it had been so long since I had seen him. If there was a picture in the hospital of Brandon than there was definitely a picture in the school of Brandon, which meant my kids were passing me every day and never ever put two-and-two together; which could only mean the transformation was complete. I had successfully become Todd Mulvaney.

I arrived on the third floor where there was more crying and more depression. The sun peeked over the horizon when I finally came face-to-face with Oliver and JC. Ronnie and Lisa were sitting in the chairs off to the side and my kids jumped up when they saw me.

"Daddy!"

"Daddy!"

"Daddy!"

My kids cried. Lisa stood off to the side giving her best angry but happy to see you face. For a second, I felt as if I was back at California University graduation 1997. I wanted to enjoy the moment of being reunited with my healthy and safe children, but my head screamed "RUN!" Because I stood in the land of the Hills. It had been over twenty years. Then I thought Todd calm yourself the odds of someone recognizing you after all this time is impossible.

Wrong again.

An officer walked in, I automatically saw that it was a detective. She flashed her badge quickly and asked, "Is everyone alright?" She looked at my kids before turning into me on her way out. When our eyes met I suddenly felt my meal coming back up. I slowly reversed into the hallway not as a means of escape but to take this grand reveal somewhere else. Valerie's eyes tore into me. She stared at me in gripping silence and in a whisper she uttered, "Saint Walsh?"*


End file.
